


Lipstick Lies

by Brambleshadow_of_WindClan



Series: Going Under [1]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: DarkTen, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Songfic, dark doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-19
Updated: 2014-05-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 17:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1656017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan/pseuds/Brambleshadow_of_WindClan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[DarkTen/Martha] “You gotta admit, you paint a pretty picture. No one would ever suspect you‘re so adept at the arts. I hear the lonely lovers say you hide behind cosmetic eyes. Kiss ’em off with lipstick lies. . . .You‘re the Picasso of pain, a fantasy in flesh tone. And though you‘re never the same, you‘re never far from the mark. Now and then you close your eyes to see the heartbreak in disguise. Kiss ’em off with lipstick lies . . .”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lipstick Lies

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know why my brain thought this was a god idea, but I was listening to "Lipstick Lies" by Pat Benatar and suddenly thought it would work well for a DarkTen and Martha story. Then it kinda took off from there.
> 
> As near as I can figure out, it takes place between the episodes "42" and "Blink." It's after "Human Nature"/" The Family of Blood", but I don't remember off the top of my head if those episodes came before or after "42."
> 
> All I can say is that the Doctor _did_ have an emo/dark Doctor thing going on all throughout series three. I kinda just . . . took it a little farther than depicted in the show.
> 
> And I may or may not have stolen a line from _Frozen_.

_You gotta admit,_  
You paint a pretty picture.  
No one would ever suspect  
You’re so adept at the arts.  
I hear the lonely lovers say  
You hide behind cosmetic eyes.  
Kiss ’em off with lipstick lies. 

_Lipstick lies won’t hide the truth,_  
And they won’t keep you waterproof.  
The victim of your vanity. . . . 

_You’re the Picasso of pain,_  
A fantasy in flesh tone.  
And though you’re never the same,  
You’re never far from the mark.  
Now and then you close your eyes  
To see the heartbreak in disguise.  
Kiss it off with lipstick lies. 

“Doctor?”

At the sound of Martha Jones’s voice, the Time Lord lifted his head from under the console. “Yeah, Martha? What is it?”

“I was just . . .” She faltered, her voice trailing off as she stared at him. After this stretched on for over a minute, he raised an eyebrow expectantly.

“Well?” He couldn’t hold back the irritated edge. Was this body really that attractive to human women? Judging by the way Martha and Rose acted around him, the answer was _yes_.

“How much longer are you gonna be with fixing that?”

“I’m almost done.” His eyes narrowed behind his glasses in suspicion. “Why do you want to know? And don’t say it’s because you want to talk.” The Doctor rose slowly to his feet, crossed his arms as he glared at her. He may act like he didn’t notice her sexual advances, her subtle attempts at flirting, but he did notice—and he knew what her reaction would be whenever he mentioned Rose, so he did it often. The Doctor didn’t care about Martha in the way he had his former companion, but that didn’t seem to deter the medical student.

Martha just gave him a stern, almost patronizing look, and he breathed a sigh through his nose. “All right, what is it?” He whipped the glasses off his nose and stuck them in the pocket of his blue suit jacket.

“I’m worried about you,” Martha said bluntly, getting right to the point. “Your behavior with the Daleks—it was like you _wanted_ them to kill you. Did you think about how I would get back to my own time if something happened to you—if you _died_?”

No, he hadn’t, and more to the point, he didn’t care. The Doctor shrugged, face carefully expressionless. “The TARDIS would have helped you or I would have activated an emergency program. I’ve done it before.”

“With Rose?”

He nodded shortly. “What’s it matter to you what I did with her? Jealous, are we, Martha? Hhhm?”

Her dark skin flushed, and she averted her eyes. “No.”

He knew as well as she did that she was lying, but he decided to let it go—for now. “Surely what happened in Manhattan isn’t the only reason, Martha Jones.”

Her expression told him she was fighting to remain composed. At last Martha quickly shook her head. She didn’t say anything more, which he was willing to let go. For now. Again.

Still, the Doctor couldn’t help wondering if she was beginning to suspect the real reason he would put her in danger, would always leave her to fend for herself. Yes, he’d made her an official companion, had been grateful for her restoring his Time Lord self to his body, but the only reason he’d gone after her on New Earth was to tell her the truth about his planet and not out of genuine concern. When he’d been possessed by the living sun, the first person on the ship he’d wanted to kill had been Martha. Even before then, when he’d watched her escape pod detaching from the ship and floating toward the sun, and he’d promised to save her, a large part of him had wanted to let her and Riley burn to death.

But he couldn’t do that, oh no, not the _Doctor_ , the man who wanted to make people (and the universe) better.

If Martha hadn’t cottoned on by now, he doubted she ever would. Then again, why should she be suspicious of him? He’d painted such a pretty picture of himself in her eyes, had played upon her obvious attraction to him. No, Martha would never suspect his ulterior motives, not with him being so adept at the art of manipulation.

“Were you going to take me anywhere?” Martha’s voice broke into his musings.

“Um, yeah. Any particular destination in mind?”

The last stern traces left her to be replaced by a small, flirtatious smile. “You’re the Time Lord. You tell me.”

He smirked after a moment’s thought. Oh, yes, he knew just the place to take her.

_“Allons-y!”_

He pulled the lever, and they flew through the Vortex.

-oOo-

Martha half-stumbled half-ran through the dark cobblestone streets after the Doctor, her lungs and leg muscles protesting with each breath, each step. Ignoring the pain, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to keep moving, to run faster. She could hold out until they reached the TARDIS: She had to.

Martha had dealt with witches, a sentient sun, Zygons, Daleks with pig-slaves, and a giant scorpion-like creature that was embedded deep within human DNA. But somehow the Doctor had landed them on a planet populated with vampires. Vampires!

Okay, yes, there had been Ms. Finnegan the Plasmavore who killed Mr. Stoker by sucking his blood through a straw, but she wasn’t really a vampire.

The Doctor turned a corner, and Martha almost laughed aloud in a mixture of hysteria and relief as the sturdy blue shape of the TARDIS came into view.

An enraged snarl came from behind her, but Martha didn’t dare look back. It would slow her down, and she couldn’t afford that—not now.

She stumbled into the TARDIS after the Doctor, tripped over her feet and landed heavily on the metal ramp. Martha crawled swiftly up to the grated floor, used the console to push herself into a standing position. She glanced back at the doors, saw they were closed, and her aching body slumped in relief.

Then anger set in, and she turned to the Doctor. Martha shouted, “Why the hell did you take us there?!”

The Doctor didn’t look at her, didn’t answer her. He trailed one hand over the console as he walked around it, hit buttons and switches and levers with the other.

“Doctor?” Martha tried again, softening her tone.

He still wasn’t looking at her, and that worried her. Surely he hadn’t _intended_ to take her to that planet? No, definitely not. The TARDIS must have taken control again. Yes, that had to be it.

So why was he taking so long to answer her?

Suddenly his head snapped up from the console, his dark eyes fixed on her as he started the dematerialization process. Martha instinctively took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. He was so beautiful when he looked like this: tall, dark, barely controlled. Burning eyes that pierced your soul, combined with pale and freckled skin . . . he seemed more like an deadly angel than a Time Lord at times—the lonely angel of death.

“Did they scratch you?”

His question caught her off guard. Martha blinked. “What?”

“I said, ‘Did they scratch you?’”

“I—I don’t think so.”

“Mmm.” The Doctor moved around the console, started to walk toward her. “Better check to be sure.” Was she imagining it, or was there something . . . predatory about his movements?

She had to be imagining it. As much as she wanted him, there was no way on Earth or any other planet that he would give himself to her. She’d never be able to compare to his old companion, Rose Tyler. He’d made it clear on that.

But the way he was acting, looking at her as if she was his prey . . . Nervous butterflies fluttered in Martha’s stomach.

His hand was on the small of her back now as he guided her through the labyrinth of corridors, finally ending up in what she assumed was medbay—sickbay, whatever you wanted to call it. The medical student in her was drinking everything in, noting the differences and relaxing at instruments she recognized, as well as wondering what everything was for and how it was used.

The Doctor had Martha sit on what looked like an examination table, then busied himself with checking her over, muttering to himself the whole while.

“Well?” Martha asked when he paused for at least three seconds. “What’s your diagnosis?”

He looked up at her, the sorrowful look in his brown eyes telling her all she needed to know.

“How bad is it?”

Silence. He turned away from her, began preparing a syringe. After filling it to ten ccs with a dark red liquid, he inspected the needle and turned to face her.

Martha couldn’t stop herself from shrinking back. Despite the fact she was a medical student she hated receiving shots. “Doctor, what is that? What’s in it?” Why wouldn’t he answer her? Why was he being so silent? Normally she couldn’t shut him up to save his life.

“It’ll help,” he said, advancing toward her slowly. He must have seen a dubious expression on her face, because he added soothingly, “Trust me. I’m a Doctor.”

Suddenly Martha didn’t want to let him or that needle anywhere near her, but if it would help . . . So she swallowed hard, turned her head away as the needle pricked her skin and that dark syrupy liquid (that looked suspiciously like blood) flowed into her body.

The Doctor’s arms were around her, helping her to her feet. “Here, let me help.” Since Martha didn’t feel like protesting, she allowed him to lead her yet again down the corridors of his ship.

If her head had been clearer, she might have wondered why they were going in the opposite direction of her room. Even with a fuzzy head, Martha began to realize something was wrong.

“Doctor, where are you—?” She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her tongue suddenly felt thick and heavy, and her vision was starting to blur. Martha blinked, trying to clear her eyesight, but the blurriness remained. It took effort to even turn her head, but she managed it. “You—you—,” she started accusingly. Then she stumbled as the drug took full effect, and she blacked out.

-oOo-

When Martha came to, she was lying on a bed in a room she didn’t recognize. A quick patdown revealed she was still clothed, and she didn’t know whether to be grateful or disappointed.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” the familiar voice said from her right.

Martha’s head snapped in that direction and saw the Doctor standing in the shadows. She scrambled back on the bed, away from him. “Don’t touch me!”

He smirked. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?” He stepped forward, out of the shadows, and Martha shuddered at the cold look in his eyes. “Don’t act like you don’t want me to, Martha. I’ve seen the way you look at me, and I’d hate to tell you this but that is never gonna happen.”

“Because I’m not _her_ , is that right?” Martha flung at him.

“No, you’re not. I told you when you first came on board that you weren’t replacing her, but that didn’t seem to stop you, did it?”

“You’re the one who kissed me!”

“ _That_ was a genetic transfer and the only way to save lives!”

“And how many times did you kiss _her_?”

His eyes gleamed. “I was right earlier: You _are_ jealous, Martha. And of someone you’ve never even met. Humans. You’re so emotional, so territorial. How you lot ever reach space is beyond me.”

She ignored the insult aimed at her species. “That’s not an answer.”

His expression now was absolutely wicked. “More times than I have you—and not all of them were on her mouth.”

Martha shook her head, as if that would dislodge his words from her brain. It just caused the room to spin so she stopped, feeling dizzy.

Then she remembered: “You drugged me!”

The way he tilted his head reminded her of an inquisitive bird. “Did I? Yes, I suppose I did. It’s not like you were complaining, in any event.”

“What was in it?”

He scoffed. “You wouldn’t recognize it even if I told you, so why bother? But that’s not what’s bugging you, isn’t it?” The Doctor moved to the edge of the bed, brought his face close to hers. “She saw more of me than you ever will, and doesn’t that just _hurt_?”

Martha didn’t know whether to slap him or kiss him. So she did neither and turned her head away.

Then cold hands grabbed her wrists, yanked her off the bed, and slammed her hard against the nearest wall. Martha gasped with pain, forced blurred eyes open. Those brown eyes boring into her seemed almost black, were completely foreign and alien to her. His grip on her wrists didn’t loosen, and he was crowding her.

“Doctor, stop it! You’re hurting me!”

White teeth flashed in a feral, dangerous grin. “Am I? Good. Besides, you won’t remember any of this.”

Fear turned her veins to ice, but her skin was nowhere near as cold as that of the Time Lord pinning her to the wall. “What is it with you?” Martha swallowed, hated that she couldn’t stop her voice from shaking as she added, “You’re scaring me.”

There was nothing warm about his demeanor now, and Latimer’s description of the Doctor replayed in her mind with sudden clarity: _He’s like fire and ice and rage. He’s like the night and the storm in the heart of the sun. He’s ancient and forever. He burns at the center of time and can see the turn of the universe._ She mentally added, _And he’s terrifying._ Martha had seen flashes of this side to him before; but they were brief, quickly buried away, and never directed at her. Now that it was, she wanted to run and hide from the storm brewing and raging inside him—except he probably wouldn’t let her do that, not unless it was on _his_ orders.

Her breath drew in as a rattling his as the Doctor bent his head. She tensed, tremors running through her, swallowed hard as she heard him inhale—no, that was wrong: he was taking in her scent. Then cool lips brushed the skin of her throat, lingered there for a few seconds before withdrawing. Martha’s heart sped up, blood roared in her ears—and then came crashing down.

All of their kisses were lies. He was using her—no more, no less. She thought, _Kiss it off with lipstick lies. . . ._

Martha closed her eyes, felt the Doctor release her. She slumped against the wall, then let gravity slide her down it until she was sitting. Even with closed eyes she sensed movement as he crouched down in front of her. Her eyelids fluttered and she opened them to the tiniest slit—just enough to see him, his face wearing a smirk that made him unrecognizable to her.

“Oh, Martha,” he crooned, sounding almost Scottish. “Poor Martha. Lonely Martha. Brilliant, misunderstood, heartbroken Martha.” He reached out, cupped her chin, and sighed. “If only there was someone out there who loved you.”

She wanted to slap him for that. Clearly his one-time meeting with her mother hadn’t left much of an impression. Besides, all she had to do was turn her head a little, and—

No. He’d kick her out of the TARDIS. Despite the way he was currently treating her, she didn’t want to go back to her old life—not yet, at least. Martha loved him too much for that.

Her eyes opened fully, glared at him. That angry look clearly said, _You take that back!_

“Relax,” the Doctor said quietly, voice oddly soothing. His hands drifted up to the side of her head, toward her temples. Martha flashed back to the asylum and the mind-meld (there was no other word for it) he’d done on the insane architect, knew what he was going do to . . . and found herself unable to resist.

He was so, so beautiful when he was dangerous like this . . .

Then her vision went dark, and she knew nothing more.

-oOo-

Once the Doctor was sure Martha was unconscious and he’d safely buried her memory of this little incident, he picked her up in both arms and carried her into her room. He set her down on her bed, turned and walked away with a small smile on his lips.

No, she would never suspect. Even if her subconscious picked up on little quirks, there was no way she’d be able to connect them, not with her buried and altered memories.

“Look at that,” the Doctor murmured as he shut the door to Martha’s room and started sauntering down the hallway. “I win.”

_Lipstick lies won’t hide the truth,_  
And they won’t keep you waterproof.  
The victim of your vanity,  
You see just what you want to see.  
Who’s to blame?  
Love is love by any name.  
Who’s to blame? 


End file.
